Holiday Package: For Matt Hardy
by wrestlefan4
Summary: Secret Santa for Seraphalexiel Randy Orton/Matt Hardy


**Secret Santa to my friend and lovely author: Seraphalexiel. *hugs* Hope you enjoy it! And um, it's crude. It just...wanted to be that way. Down n dirty.  
**

**Holiday Package: For Matt Hardy**

Matt limped towards the locker room, ticklish sweat sliding down his red face, as his chest worked to get his breath regulated. That match had been brutal, and to top it off his old knee injury was throbbing back to painful life, what with the cold weather, and the repeated stomps and twists Randy expertly placed to it. So much for kayfabe and selling. Randy had worked that knee for real, and the contorted expressions of pain on Matt's face were testament to that. He ran a hand through his dark, messy curls, aggravated when some of them caught and spun around his fingers. He ripped his hand away, and some of the frizzy strands tore and knotted.

He hobbled into the locker room, intent on just grabbing his things, and hurriedly changing into jeans and a t-shirt. Then he could leave, and drive from the shitty town where they'd done a house show, on to Indianapolis where his reserved hotel room was waiting for him. He didn't even want to bother with showering before he left the arena. Visions of soaking in the hotel bathtub with the jets on and the water as hot as he could stand it suited him better, and he could almost imagine the steam and swirls of hot water easing his aching body. If he got to stinking on the way there, then too bad. He was making the drive alone, and as long as he could stand it then it didn't really matter if he smelled like a rose, or a landfill.

He quickly kicked out of his boots, then stripped from his sticky tights, and shoved the wadded spandex into his bag. It felt good to get the clinging fabric away from his skin so he could breathe, and he thanked his luck that at least of one thing tonight, Jericho wasn't here to make some lewd comment or grab for his ass. For a few long moments, Matt just stood there, leaned up against the lockers with his eyes closed, his only covering being a clinging pair of briefs, one side riding up in the back to give a beautiful view of a rounded, olive-tan cheek.

"Well, don't you look like the picture of fuck-me stood there like that."

The voice came close to him, low, and so suddenly that he startled. Matt jumped even more when warm hands roamed over his bare flesh. He knew the voice didn't belong to Chris, but that was the only thought that popped into his head, despite the blond not being there. Matt whirled around, to see a pair of silvery eyes trained on him. The hands that had been against his skin belonged to toned, tanned, tattooed arms that he didn't want near him. Matt's dark eyes narrowed to slits of annoyance, and he huffed at the brazen young man.

"Keep your hands off of me." Matt growled, shoving past Randy, and reaching for his bag.

"What, were you hoping for someone else?" Randy practically purred, taking on a cocky pose, and look of arrogance as he studied his fingernails. "Jericho maybe?"

"Fuck off, Orton. All that "Matt and Jericho" shit is nothing but a big myth, no more than Chris's pathetic wet-dreams gone wild. I can't stand that loud mouthed son of a bitch. I wouldn't piss on him if he was on fire." Matt practically spat, as he tugged a clean, somewhat wrinkled t-shirt from his bag.

He chewed his plump lip in agitation, as the name he and Jericho had been dubbed with circled around in his mind. It was some kind of locker room joke that some idiot douchebag—probably Jericho himself—had come up with, and it had caught on quickly. It was a parody of the tag team 'Jerishow' and could be heard snickered under breathes, and childishly bandied about in sing-song voices just to piss the elder Hardy off each time: Matticho.

Matt hated that stupid coinage with every fiber of his being. It sounded stupid as fuck, and smashed his name together with one he'd rather see on Vince's Future Endeavors list. Of course, Chris loved the pet name, and used it often. The blond only wished it was their bodies spliced together rather than monikers to form a non-existent yet much lusted after couple. Well, the lust was purely on Chris' part. Matt wanted no part in it, and wished that the cock-blocked Canadian would quit stalking him. Besides, "Matticho" sounded like the name of some disgusting, frothy, coffee drink from a homespun café where they used rabbit turds as coffee beans.

Matt shuddered, and as if Randy had some inkling of what he was thinking, the Viper's lips curled into a wry little grin.

"Oh, you don't like Jericho?" Randy cooed, pouting out his lip in mock sympathy.

"Just about as much as you like Cena. At least these idiots around here aren't spreading lies about the two of you being together. Hm, I could start up something good though. How 'bout…" Matt rubbed at the prickly, dark, hairs on his chin. "Ortena, now that sounds pretty good."

Randy scowled at the name which sounded like a bottle of sauce you'd find next to taco shells in Wal-Mart. His scowl was short lived though, as he had more in mind than just a duel of words with the dark vixen, which didn't involve Matt being clothed.

Randy took the shirt from Matt's hands as he began to slip it over his head, which served only to agitate the Southerner further. His lips pulled back from his teeth in a dog-like grimace of 'don't-fuck-with-me' anger. Orton could practically hear it bubbling, and that look of ferocity in the depths of Hardy's dark eyes had him growing excited. His anticipation of what he was planning for the two of them was steadily rising, along with another more tangible evidence.

"How about we see what names we could come up with…" Randy shoved Matt's shoulders back against the lockers, the sound of the muscled flesh connecting with the metal, sending shivers through his taut body. "…for you and I." Randy finished, his voice rumbling low and seductively against the shell of Matt's ear.

"Right." Matt snorted, and shoved Randy off of him. "Moments ago you were tearing me up in the ring, and now suddenly you wanna fuck me? I don't think so Randall."

Matt reached past Randy again, this time going for the leg of his jeans which was hanging out from his bag, looking like a deflated, denim, elephants trunk. Randy intercepted Matt's reaching hand, and shoved him back once more into the lockers. This time Randy's fingers encircled like Matt's wrists like fleshy handcuffs, and pinned them to the cool metallic surface. Randy cocked his head at the dark one beneath him, and slowly moved his eyes over the features, which even twisted in wrath, still looked handsome—maybe even more-so because of the intense emotions playing out on them. Randy's eyes glittered, like diamond cut raindrops against a steel-grey sky. His tongue flicked out, snake-like, against the tangy-slick sweat of Matt's rosy cheek.

"I had to take some of the fight out of you, now didn't I?" Randy asked, his lips hovering over Matt's trembling ones.

"You didn't take nothing out of me, and you ain't putting anything in me either!" Matt reared back against Randy, their arms locked in a battle of strength, which was won by Randy when he kicked Matt's leg from under him. His sore knee buckled, toppling him to the tiles with a groan, as his fingers reached to rub at the joint.

Matt's chest was pressed against the floor as pressure leaned against him, and Randy chuckled in a way that seemed almost evilly amused. Hands and fingers slid over Matt's toned shoulders, down his spine, and the palms came to rest on the humps of his ass. The fingers bunched at the waistband, and crinkled the elastic material. Slowly the cotton was pulled down revealing the toned rump, which Randy squeezed heartily with one hand, as the other slipped between Matt's waist and the floor to finish pulling his last stitch of clothes free.

Matt tried to get his arms under his torso, in attempts to push himself up, but Randy changed positions and leaned all his weight onto Matt's back. Now there was nowhere to go and no way for Hardy to get there. He tried to turn and thrash, in attempts to buck Randy off like a crocodile in a frenzied death roll. Randy let him keep up the fight until he was tired out, and his only other option was to try and get his legs underneath him, and use the strength in those strong hips and thighs to push himself up from the floor. Randy knew that wasn't going to happen, however, with Matt's knee being how it was.

"All you're doing is making me harder and harder, Matt." Randy panted, as he rolled his hips against Matt's backside, the ample hardness very apparent as the shaft slid and moved between Matt's cheeks, the way a man might do if he was tit-fucking a woman.

"Fuck off!" Matt yelled, his booming, Southern drawl echoing from the damp tiles in the deserted room.

"I'd love to, sweetheart." Randy leaned in and nipped at Matt's shoulders, causing him to writhe, and his skin to ripple with a ticklish tingle that he wished he hadn't felt. Even worse, was the way his pinned cock was responding, twitching and growing stiff between his belly and the floor.

Randy's fingers were now probing at Matt's entrance, teasing intrusion. When an explorative tip finally entered him, he let out a hiss, and tried to wiggle free from the invader.

"What's wrong Matt? Don't tell me you're a virgin." Randy's fingertip became two, stretching as they moved deeper. "Doesn't Jeff do this for you?"

"I don't s-sleep with my fucking brother, I'm not a—ah—inbred idiot. I'm not even ga—ay." Matt managed, gritting his teeth as he was used in ways never before. "Get the fuck off of me Orton, you'll be so fucking s-so-sorry…"

At the end of Matt's threat, the fingers left, and a sigh of relief escaped the uncomfortable dark one. He thought, stupidly, that Randy had done enough. That this game was over with, and he'd be let up to connect a solid punch to that arrogant, third-generation mug, before getting dressed and getting the hell out of here. He needed that long, solitary soak in the tub more than ever now. The room was quiet, but for Randy's panting, and he was moving, seeming to get up.

At the next moment Matt realized Randy wasn't moving to get up, he was moving in order to put something more substantial than his fingers inside that private portal to which things _were not_ supposed to go into. Matt's eyes widened with the dawning revelation, but not soon enough to prevent it. Randy's hot, velvety, head pressed against his unwilling entrance. With a quick thrust that scraped Matt's lips against the floor, Randy was inside, moaning out his approval of the tight muscles, as he wrapped his hands in Matt's raven tresses and tugged.

"Get off of me!" Matt protested, unwanted tears stinging at his eyes. His tongue flicked out against his torn lip, the tang of blood spread into his mouth.

"How 'bout I get off _in _you…ooh fuck Hardy, so—so good."

Randy thrust into him, the feel of him thick and deep inside made Matt's stomach ache with each buck, and at the same time, as that hardness moved, it struck something else inside that made Matt's back arch, and his short nails scrabble at the tiles for purchase. His protests slowly died out to whimpers and groans that met Randy's labored breathing and grunts, as if they were holding some primitive communication that needed no words at all.

The sensations sent Matt's body into overdrive like never before, anything he'd had with a woman compared to this was nothing, and despite his minds muddled attempts to rant that it couldn't be true—his body had other, much stronger ideas of its own. He was quickly pushed over the edge, as that sweet, wonderful, spot inside was stimulated again and again, and with a strangled cry he came all over himself. He heard Randy laugh a little at that, obviously enjoying that he'd practically made Matt into an unwilling-willing slut with his face smashed into the floor, and his torso sticky with seed.

Matt could feel Randy's body tensing against his spent one, and he was sure in a few moments this would be over. If he could find the energy, he was going to beat Randy Orton within an inch of his dumbfuck life. Before Randy came with his own release, however, he pulled out.

Once again Matt's reeling mind was rapturous with the mistaken thought that Randy was done with him. Matt started to move a little, as life numbly moved back into his stiff arms on pins and needles. He was helped up via Randy dragging him up to his knees, to which he winced when the swollen one dug against the floor. Randy tangled his fingers in Matt's long hair and twisted his head back at an odd angle that made Matt grimace, and squint one eye closed as a trail of sweat leaked into it.

Randy guided his cock, the head wet with pre-liquid, towards Matt's red-swollen mouth. Matt thrashed his head, causing his hair to tear and pull from the scalp as Randy held tight.

"Oh, hell no! That's been in my ass I'm not--"

"Shut up, you'll take what I give you."

"I'll bite it off and you'll be known ass The Dickless Wonder." Matt shot back, and spit at Orton.

"You can try, but with this thick cock of mine filling that pretty, pouty, mouth…you won't be able to bite hard enough 'cause your jaws gonna be aching." Randy let go of Matt's hair, and pried his jaw open. "That's more like it."

Randy forced himself down Matt's throat as he gagged and coughed around it. His concentration was more on breathing, not throwing up, and if he did throw up not choking on it, so that he could barely think of even trying to bite Randy as his mouth and throat was being savagely taken. When he was able to figure out how to not suffocate on the heavy organ, his wits returned to him a little, and he clenched his jaw. Randy was right, however. He couldn't get enough pressure to really bite. The only thing he was doing now was giving that perverted bastard more pleasure by being feisty. Reluctantly, Matt unclenched his jaw. His hands found Randy's waist, and tried that way to shove the younger man away from him. That worked, but then he was blinded by jets of sticky release, that coated his face and trailed down, pooling into his shocked open mouth as he spat and struggled to wipe the muck out of his eyes.

"So good Matt. Wow…" Randy breathed, as he tossed Matt's clean shirt at him to wipe his face with. "And I get paid for the wonderful fuck of your virgin ass and mouth, too." Now Randy laughed, long, and wickedly.

"What are you talking about? Get the hell out of here!" Matt got to his feet, and launched his wadded, cum-stained shirt at Randy who just side-stepped it. "I oughta ring your fucking neck you little--" Matt's voice was raspy and strained, from the vicious use of his throat. He stepped towards Randy in that wide gait of his, trying hard to ignore the burn and pain that cut through his belly and ass as he did so.

"Whoah, whoah Hardy!" Randy held his hands in an innocent gesture, palms out. "It's not me you ought to strangle." His thin lips parted in a wolfish leer, and his eyes glimmered like the sharp, serrated edges of twin knives. "It's Chris you want to murder, not me. See, I found him drunk off his ass the other night, whining about how you won't give him the time of day and what-not. I bet him his next paycheck I could get to you before we all go on leave for the holidays. You gotta admit…" Randy glanced down at his crotch, before connecting his mischievous gaze back to Matt. "Best package you'll ever receive. Merry Christmas, Hardy."

Randy kicked Matt's shirt out of the way, and zipped the fly of his jeans. Matt let out a cry of rage, and his fist dented the locker behind him. Randy straightened his shirt, and with a pleased smile on his face, sauntered out of the room, whistling 'Jingle Bells' as he went.


End file.
